by Sheryl Lynn
“I’m doing better. No spasms.”
She pulled the chicken, golden brown and sizzling, from the oven, then slid in the biscuits to bake. “What can I get you to drink? A beer?”
“There’s iced tea in the fridge.”
The kitchen was so small she had only to turn to reach the refrigerator. “I hope you don’t mind, but I looked at the drawings you made.” She indicated a stack of sketches on the coffee table. “Is that a project for Walt?”
“It’s for my house. I’m hoping to break ground this summer.”
She liked the sound of that. It was so permanent. “Those are really nice.” She set a glass of tea before him. He smelled of chlorine. His eyes were dark and solemn, arresting. She couldn’t help it. She pecked a kiss on his forehead before whirling away to tend the potatoes.
“Laney?”
“Yes?” She poured off the water from the potatoes. Steam wreathed her face.
“I am a selfish jerk. I just…I hate being weak. My worst nightmare is that I’ll end up with a big pot belly from sitting around watching TV all day and feeling sorry for myself.”
She added butter and milk to the potatoes. She began mashing them smooth.
“Every ache, every twinge reminds me that I’m not the same. That I’ll never be the same again. I don’t want to end up all twisted and confined to a wheelchair. Useless. Want to see what they did to me?”
She wasn’t sure but intuited that she needed to. Ric’s fears were nothing new to her. All her life she’d been around strong men who reacted poorly to any sign of weakness. Her father had been a prime example. Del’s heart disease had been diagnosed when he was in his forties, but he’d refused to slow down. His philosophy had been, no sense living to be a hundred if he had to act like an old man in order to get there.
“Sure. Show me.”
He grasped the hem of his T-shirt and pulled it up to his shoulders. She peered at his back. Ridges of scar tissue, pink and shiny, tracked along and across his spine. A flash of revulsion rippled through her, then was gone. Visions of him bleeding and broken choked her up. She traced a long scar with a fingertip. When the mine exploded, had he screamed? Shook and trembled, his eyes glazed with shock, terrified of dying and hurting so much he wished for death? Had he crawled through mud and blood and tears in a hopeless attempt to save his dying driver? His flesh quivered when she touched the scars.
“Is this supposed to scare me?” she asked.
He tugged his shirt down. “Doesn’t it?”
She crouched and rested her forearms on his knees. “You’re not as scary as you think.”
“What if I have to have more surgery?” He worked his fingers through her hair, his strong fingers tender against her scalp. “What if I end up paralyzed?”
“Well, then you do need me, now don’t you?”
“I don’t know if I’m man enough for you, Laney.”
“If all you could move was one eyelid, you’d be more than enough man for me.” She rose and leaned close to his face. When her nose nearly touched his, she paused. “This is only our second date, right?”
Finally, blessedly, he smiled. “You’re one hot little number, aren’t you?”
“You don’t know the half of it, Cedric Buchanan.” She bustled away to finish putting the meal together.
He winced a few times while he ate. Once he froze in the midst of lifting the bowl of mashed potatoes, the cords standing out on his neck and his eyes strained. She refrained from commenting. Instead she encouraged him to talk about the house he planned to build. His house plans were simple, but elegant with clever usage of space and interesting flow.
In the midst of washing dishes, she asked, “Have you ever thought about going back to school?”
“I never was a scholar.” He sneaked half a biscuit to Buster.
She glanced at a book shelf containing a decent collection of classic novels and non-fiction books on design, building and history. “Surely you’ve taken some classes since high school? Learned some skills in the army.”
“I jumped out of airplanes and chased guerrillas. Not much call for that around here.”
“What about architects? There’s always a call for those. You have an incredible talent.”
He appeared surprised. “Do you think so?”
“All you have to do is ask the women you’ve renovated kitchens and bathrooms for. Don’t get me wrong, you’re a terrific carpenter, but drawing designs for a living isn’t nearly as strenuous.”
“I do like to draw.” He turned a thoughtful gaze on the pile of sketches. “You really think those are good?”
She hung the dishtowel on the oven handle. “I think they’re wonderful.” She finger-combed his hair into a semblance of order. “I think you’re wonderful.”
He slid an arm around her waist and held her loosely. His hand was warm against her hip. “Maybe buying Savvy was our second date. What do you think?”
She answered with a kiss, a soft press of her lips against his. He made a pained noise deep in his throat and winced. She drew back. He averted his gaze. The corners of his mouth pulled down.
“Your hair is making me crazy,” she said.
He smoothed one side with a hand, making the other side look worse by comparison. “We should call it a night.”
“Not until I do something with your hair. Sit still.”
“Laney, it’s not—”
She was already out of the room and in the bathroom where she found a comb. Odd recklessness gripped her. She didn’t intend to seduce Ric, though a wild affair based on sexual passion held its own appeal. She wanted more. She wanted to be with him. What she really wanted was for him to want to be with her, even when he didn’t feel his best. She wanted to prove to him that she found him desirable no matter what.
Ignoring his half-hearted protests, she combed his hair. Years ago, when he’d been a sharp-pressed young soldier with a crew cut, he’d been incredibly handsome. Now his hair was longish, dark at the roots, golden wherever the sun had touched. Its unruliness added a raffish element to his attractiveness. The comb caught in its thickness. She drew it slowly through the strands. He watched her every move.
“You smell like chlorine,” she said.
“You smell like chicken.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Wonder if you taste like chicken.” He slid both hands seductively over her hips.
She gave his nose an admonishing tap with the comb. “Behave. If you have videos, we can still watch a movie.”
“No VCR,” he said. “No TV either.”
“Hmm.” She critically eyed her handiwork. One thick hank of hair insisted on falling over his forehead.
“Can’t get any reception up here. I had to decide between buying a horse or a satellite dish.”
“You made a good choice. Oh my, but your skin is all dried out. Hold on.” She dug through her purse until she found a tube of hand and body lotion.
“No, Laney, uh-uh. No pink stuff. I’m not smelling like a girl. Put that away.”
“After long soaks in the tub, and with this dry air, you need lotion. Now hush. Give me your arm.”
He growled and grumbled, but finally extended his left arm. She squirted a blob of lotion into her hand, gave it a few rubs to warm it, then went to work. Nice, nice arm, she mused, with well-defined muscles and forearms like steel. He wore the grouchily abashed expression of a dog suffering through a bath, but eventually, as she worked her way over his elbow, triceps and biceps, his brow smoothed and his mouth relaxed. When she demanded his other arm, he instantly complied.
She had to slide her hands beneath his T-shirt sleeves to reach his shoulders. She asked him to remove the shirt. When he pulled off the shirt, her knees went wobbly. His belly was flat and smooth. His chest was broad, marked by whorls of dark hair. Gooseflesh rose on his arms and back, but she doubted he was cold. She felt as if she were burning up.
“You are really turning me on,” he said, his voice smoky.
Grinning, she squ
irted more lotion into her hand. “Do you know we have a masseuse in McClintock?”
“I met her.”
“Mama goes to her once a week. She swears she’s a miracle worker. Did she give you a massage? You don’t like her?”
“She’s okay, but all the candles and aroma therapy oils and pingy-dingy music freaks me out.”
Laughing, she kept her touch light across his scars. She could feel bumps on his spine where it had been broken and subsequently fused. He creakily leaned forward until his elbows rested on his knees. Bobby had always been wrenching muscles; being stoved up and sore was the cowboy way. So she knew one or two tricks about how to warm skin and muscles to ease the knots.
“You have good hands.” He practically purred.
“Thank you.” His skin was gleaming from the lotion. She felt as if she were glowing from the inside out.
“Nice legs, too.”
“Thank you again.”
“And your butt—”
“Ric.”
He laughed. She’d never tire of listening to his laughter. At that moment she realized what was different about tonight. It wasn’t his sore back, or that she’d insisted on feeding him, or even that she was indulging in touching his body. It was that there were no more secrets between them, no more shame.
He’d been at least partly right in calling their former relationship rebellious. The more her father had railed against him, the more she’d wanted Ric. Now, there was no sneaking around. No terror-thrill of getting caught. She’d come to know Ric as a person rather than as an object of desire. He was a good man, with a good heart. He was everything she expected a man should be: honest, generous, affectionate and strong.
She slid her hands over his shoulders, up to his neck where her fingers met in a vee, then down his spine gently, across the tough muscles banding his ribs and his waist. His breathing had a ragged quality.
“Sit up,” she said. “Let me do your chest.”
“No.”
“Come on. I won’t hurt you.”
“No.”
She tried to see his face, but he kept it lowered. Then she understood. He was aroused. Feeling absurdly pleased to have such an effect on him and touched that he was shy about it, she screwed the cap on the lotion tube. “I didn’t bring any dessert. Do you have anything sweet?”
“You’re driving me crazy, Laney.”
“Am I?”
“You know you are.”
He lifted his head and grinned. He seemed dazed. His pupils were so big the irises were thin rings of sapphire. She no longer smelled the hot tub, but an intoxicating mixture of baby-powder scented lotion and something darker, sultrier, uniquely him.
“I’m putty in your hands, honey.”
“I bet that’s not putty in your britches.”
He was startled.
“Does that shock you? Well, if you don’t want me ravishing your body, then tell me where you stash the sweets.”
His laughter filled the trailer and her heart. She rummaged through the refrigerator and freezer. With an “Ah-ha!” of triumph she pulled out a carton of chocolate, chocolate-chip ice cream. “Holding out on me,” she said, working off the carton top. “You should be punished.”
She presented him a spoonful of ice cream. Then pulled it back, just out of his reach. “Hmm, now what shall I have you do to earn this?”
“Now you’re just being cruel.” He opened his mouth and she relented, allowing him the ice cream. He made a show of licking the spoon clean.
“I wasn’t thinking cruel and unusual,” she said, her voice low and husky. “I was merely considering…unusual.” She brought ice cream to her lips and slowly worked the blob of chocolate sweetness in and out of her mouth. “Did the army teach you anything—” she waggled her eyebrows, “—interesting?”
He stared so hungrily, a jolt of desire made everything jump inside her. “I know a trick or two you might consider interesting,” he said. His voice and the intensity in his eyes were powerfully erotic.
She fed him more ice cream. He finally straightened, revealing that he was indeed aroused. Perhaps she was being a tad cruel.
She used a finger to wipe a smear of ice cream from his lower lip. “Do you know what I’d really like to do?”
He wagged an admonishing finger. “Please don’t say it. If you do, I’ll agree then I’ll really mess myself up.”
She dipped her eyes significantly to his crotch. “I just hate to leave you suffering.”
He grasped her shoulders, his long fingers splayed and burning hot through her sweater sleeves. “Listen to me. I want to make love to you. Really want to make love to you. I dream about you all the time. Holding you. Kissing you.”
She was melting inside. “Oh, Ric, me, too.”
“Then let’s do it right. Not in this crappy trailer. Not when I’m scared to make a wrong move. How about a suite in the General Palmer Hotel down in Durango? A whole weekend.”
“Marlee’s graduation is next weekend.”
“The weekend after that then. What do you say?”
“I don’t know if I can wait that long.”
He chuckled, a wicked note. “Two can play the teasing game, sweetheart.” He slid his hands boldly, firmly over her breasts. She gasped. When he flicked his thumbs across her nipples, she gasped again. “Say yes.”
“Yes,” she breathed. When he tenderly squeezed her breasts, she saw double.
“Now you move over to that side of the table.”
An impish impulse to continue the love play made her hesitate. But he was right. It couldn’t be pleasurable for him to worry that any wrong move could send his muscles into spasms.
A trilling noise made Buster leap to his feet. He barked once. Ric looked around in confusion.
“You are saved by the bell, mister,” she said. She fetched the cell phone from her coat pocket. “You ought to get one of these. The reception is fine. And then I can find you when I…want you.” She opened the phone and pressed it to her ear. She expected to hear Jodi, but it was her mother. “Hi, Mama, what’s going—”
“Thank God I found you! Where are you?” Lillian sounded in a panic.
“I’m at Ric’s. What’s the matter?”
Lillian seemed to be struggling for breath. “There’s been an accident. It’s Tom, up on Branch Road. He’s hurt bad.”
Elaine groped for a chair. She dropped onto it. Ric reached for her arm. “Car accident? Oh my God, Mama, was Jodi with Tom? She went with him to look at calves. Is she all right? Is she hurt? Where is she?”
“She’s gone! Gwen said she was with Tom, but she’s disappeared!”
Chapter Twelve
Ric and Elaine made it to the accident site on Branch Road in time to see the Flight for Life helicopter lift into the sky. It had been a harrowing ride for them on icy roads. Ric drove the Jeep, clenching his teeth against the pain every time he worked the clutch. Elaine spoke to her mother on the cell phone. Whenever they drove through a low area and transmission failed, Elaine would clutch the phone in both hands and yell, pleading for information.
The helicopter rose, the turbulence from its blades making tall trees sway. Seeing it, knowing what it carried, hearing its chuffing, chopping engine noise filled Ric’s heart with dread.
Ric steered through knots of trucks and utility vehicles and horse trailers. It looked as if the entire population of the valley had mustered out to search for the missing girl.
A sliver of moon rising over the mountains only served to drive home how very dark the night was.
A deputy waved a flashlight, ordering them to stop. Ric rolled down the window. “I’ve got Jodi Greene’s mother. We need to find the sheriff.” The deputy waved them through. Ric spotted Tom’s pickup truck parked on a turnout. Official vehicles, all of them with emergency lights strobing, blocked the road. Before he turned off the engine, Elaine was out and running in search of her uncle.
His daughter, his Jodi, was out there, lost in the wilderness on
a cold night that was getting colder by the second. He couldn’t bear imagining her frightened or hurt. Elaine couldn’t survive losing her child.
He eased out of the Jeep. The muscles along his spine felt as fragile as hot cellophane, stretched tight. He pushed the pain aside. He spotted Tate Raleigh and shoved through the crowd.
“Ranger,” Tate said, his expression grim. “Bad situation.”
A knot of people gathered around King McClintock. He shouted orders. Men and women, several holding excited dogs, were fanning out into the forest on either side of the road. Flashlight beams danced and bobbed like a drunken laser-light show. Radios crackled and spat.
“What happened?” Ric asked.
“Somebody beat hell out of Tom Greene. Fractured his skull, busted his ribs. Lucky for him, the sheriff was on patrol. Damn near run over him on the road. I don’t know if he’ll make it.” Tate stared at the distant sky where the helicopter had disappeared.
“Did Tom say who did it?”
“Couldn’t talk. What we’re hoping is that Jodi saw the attack and ran.”
Not a year passed without some hapless hiker or hunter disappearing into the mountains, never to be seen again. His frantic brain rattled off dangers: bears, mountain lions, deep ravines, hypothermia, rock slides, starvation, dehydration. “You hope?”
“Better in the forest than with a kidnapper.”
“Raleigh!” the sheriff bellowed.
Tate hurried to the sheriff’s cruiser. Ric followed. Shell-shocked and blank, Elaine sat on the cruiser’s driver’s seat. Kidnapped, Ric thought, numb and cold inside. Beautiful, lively, funny Jodi kidnapped by a maniac who’d beaten an old man into unconsciousness. He reached for Elaine’s hand. Silent tears streamed down her cheeks.
“We’ll find her, honey,” he said. “I swear to God, she’ll be safe and sound.”
The sheriff had a large map spread out over the cruiser’s hood. An electric lantern cast harsh white light. With a red marker, he slashed and circled areas on the map. “Coordinate with the State Police and Highway Patrol,” King told Tate. “I want roadblocks set up all the way around the valley. I’ll coordinate with the park service to block the forest trails.” He waved over a stocky man wearing a tribal police uniform. The two consulted in low voices.
